The title of this post lends itself to much interpretation, but it isn't hard to see how, for a straight male, a gay bar and a fat chick would lead to his having a limp dick. It's a forgone and natural conclusion, right? The obvious thing.
But have you ever been to a gay bar? Have you ever stepped inside to see same-gender couples, or women you can actually talk to about pussy and sex and "hey-she's-hot-over-there"? Have you ever seen the aggression at a bar more sexual? To put it in the words of a friend of mine, the place had a "vibe", a good atmosphere. There was no hostility, no peacocking. Again, to paraphrase my friend, everyone just wanted to be "accepted". All in all, a cool time. (Though the meat-gazing in the bathroom, I could've done without; fuck it anyway.)
Perhaps it is because this place is all about getting laid that I found it so amusing, not in a demeaning manner, but in terms of entertainment. You might get this: At a bar, a "straight" bar, a "normal" bar, people go there for any number of reasons: to get laid (yeah, you can just about say that about any gratuitous excursion: that getting laid is paramount!), to hang out with friends, to drink, to watch the game or smoke a stogie or play pool or... well, you get it.
The thing about a gay bar is, you could go there to do any of those things, of course... but the fact that the place caters specifically to a segment of the population based solely on their sexual orientation automatically lends itself to sexuality. If you're gay, you could still go to a straight bar (does a strictly straight bar even exist?) to do any of the aforementioned activities... but you go to the gay bar to meet up with like-folks. GAY folks. And good on ya, too: If they had a bar that solely targetted hot nymphomaniacs (a strictly female condition; in men, it's satyriasis) for customers, you bet I'd be a member. Hell, I'd be a barstool in a place like that.
In any case, if my friends and I were in this place, then it obviously stands to reason that we weren't the only straight ones there; I'd bet that an easy third of the people there were straight. Maybe they went with their gay friends, maybe they wanted a night away from their normal scene... maybe they'd even realized the tendency for sexual openness in a place like this (i.e., that tailors to a group based on their sexuality) and went for the potential of really getting some fuck going. (That's why I was there, after all.)
Though I'm not gay, even I could cut the sex in the air with a blunt dildo. Everyone was doing something. Those brutish men, one shirtless with the camo pants and combat boots, the other bearing a likeness to Michaelangelo's David, of about 6'5", mugging down in the bathroom. (A bit of a trainwreck to my straight self, I must admit, but nevertheless, interesting to see in its foreignness to me.) The six or so gay Asian guys, all grabbing one another's asses as if trying to determine which canteloupe to buy based on ripeness. The four cute lesbians - though, in fairness, only the one that approached us had the telltale haircut of the butch - asking us to please let them closer to the stage (there was a show going on) because they were shorter than us. (I use the term "butch" reluctantly, because she really was cute, sort of like a shorter, slimmer Matt Damon with breasts and freckles. (Sorry: I'm an Affleck guy. (Well... no, I'm not... but it just seemed funny to say.)))
The show itself catered to the crowd - it was rife with sexual innuendo and in-jokes, some reference humor that only frequent clientele, dirty minds, or the gay would understand - and that was the main focus, the attraction, on the lower level; the bar on the other side of the first floor was only that: a bar, merely a place to get your drinks and move on. Norm and Cliff can go to the speak-easy down the street; THIS place was for standing, bullshitting, and trying to fuck (or get fucked), not for talking about your day's work or discussing trite philosophy. Bacchus would enjoy this place, for the sex and liquor were both readily available.
After being there for a bit, I noticed something about other bars: When a dude at any other bar bumped into me, the feral hostility was abundant; there was no guesswork that said fellow was wanting to fight or otherwise attempt to assert dominance. (Now, I'm no fighter. I can fight, and have, but, as a rule, there isn't a whole lot that's worth fighting about at a bar - not politics, pussy, or religion - particularly when a jail cell might be at the conclusion of the evening.) At other bars, this bumping gesture, combined with a glare or some shit-talking, was no mystery. Here, though, the chest-bump or shoulder-nudge came with none of the normally accompanying hostility. I sat down at the mini-bar just after the cute lesbos asked us tall guys to get out of their way and struck up a conversation with a timid-looking gay guy, and asked him about this oddity in my life, this "harmless" chest bumping, curious if this was part of the gays' mating ritual. "Sometimes," he said, a friendly and not-at-all flirtatious smile crossing his face; he could tell I was straight, even with my five-day moustache and soul patch.
Upstairs was a whole different scene, and might as well have been an entirely different bar: It was a dance club, complete with strobe lights, techno music, and the gay leprechaun with glow sticks in his grill. Everyone was fucking dancing. (And I use "fucking" as a modifier, not an adverb that implies people were fucking to a beat. (Can you imagine "fuck dancing"? It would blow the Waltz, the Macarena, and the Boogaloo all to Hell; of course, the birthrate would soar, but fuck it! We's FUCK-DANCING!)
After standing around for a bit, wondering where we fit into this crowd of dancing, maniacal swingers, lust and sweat oozing from their pores, I noticed a cute but chunky - how chunky was beyond my ability to determine, imbibed on Jagermeister and beer and this miscellaneous shot as I was - girl eyeing me. So drunk was I on not merely booze but also on the openness of sex in this place, I couldn't see the harm in dancing with this female; in fact, she was more my type than 90% of the place's clientele (1/2 of which was male (gay or not, males are not my type), and the majority of the other half being lesbian, unattractive, or morbidly obese).
So: we danced. And have you ever been dancing with someone and they never quite matched your rhythm, or you theirs, and you felt as though it was somehow your fault? That was me. Now, I'm not a terrible dancer: I have rhythm, endurance, and I'm more or less fit. I'm good-looking. Armed with this last fact, I got somewhat tired of dancing off-step with this girl. After the obligatory common chit-chat (e.g., "My name is this....", "How old are you...", etc.) and some more dancing, getting ever closer to one another, my hands attempting to manipulate her clitoris through the jeans she had on, I finally just asked her: "Would you like to go someplace and fuck?"
Now, this may very well seem like a rude or churlish, impatient, perhaps, and quite simply vulgar. But I protest: I actually work well with people, not squarely in professional tripe, but also in banter that skirts the Outer Limits of conversation. Ergo, I would not have asked the question if, given the circumstances (as (1) she was primed for it, and (2) I was getting quite randy, feeling ornery), it was inappropriate. (That's not to say I won't do or say inappropriate things; what I mean is that, when I do these improprieties, it shouldn't really be all that surprising, given that a drunk me is churlish and vulgar.)
She grabbed my hand and escorted me off of the floor, taking me to an o so romantic shitter, a single with a toilet and a sink. She promptly locked the door and, in my confusion, thinking that she was drunk - evidently not drunk enough, since she had locked the door correctly - I unlocked it erroneously. It didn't take long - seconds, maybe - before passerby started to open the door; she was deft in her re-locking it, and I apologized profusely - if a proper apology can be issued while fumbling a cock out of one's pants while simultaneously undoing her belt and pants to submerge said cock into her pelvis' center.
You're probably expecting some sad tale where I get this girl to the bathroom only to realize (too late) that she's actually a HE. This was not the case: She was female, alright, with the titties and the pussy to prove it.
Damn, was she wet. Damn, did her ass look okay in the bent-over position. Nice: I was going to fuck in the restroom of a gay b-
Damn, did her asshole stink. The odor of shit hit my nose, though in fairness it could have been exacerbated by the copious cups of body sweat she produced. Yech. What a turnoff.... which should have been impossible, as aroused as I was by the prospect of fucking in a bar. But, yep! She did it.
Honestly, I did try to recapture the moment by choking my limp fucker like I was trying to squeeze a hot dog in half, (I'll call it "manual vasocongestion") hoping that the blood captured in my dick's head would make the slick pussy more tantalizing as I rubbed my cock up against it... but, to my chagrin, this didn't work. Nothing worked.
Somewhere between the shit-smell, my being tired from a three-hour workout, and my drinking myself halfway to silly Bacchus-style, my pecker failed me. I've bagged hotties and rotties around the world; my dick has fought through the most adverse of conditions. But here, maybe not when I needed it most, but when it sure as shit would've come in handy, my cock was as useful as a rubber filled - and not full - with cottage cheese.
How sad for me. How fucking morose I became.
"Is it the people knocking on the door?" She asked. God bless her for giving me an out, as saying that she didn't wipe her ass very well probably would have offended her.
"Yeah. Yeah, I think so."
So, out we went, released back into the gay bar, where I found my friends before hitting the urinal one last time. A gay black dude with a smart-ass fedora (think, "Cedric the Entertainer meets Queer Eye") meat-gazed me, and I laughed: "You don't want any of this, man; it's been up in a girl that stunk bad." He concurred: He did not want any of that.
On the way out, my buddy and his wife asked me where I'd gone and what I did. I lied, saying I got her pants down and fulled around with her, but didn't fuck her. (I still consider my strangled dick's head going into her as having fucked her; penetration - not deep penetration, but penetration, still - did occur, and at enough of a depth that any father, boyfriend, or husband would've been upset. That, and she was retard-moaning like a fireplug was going into her as I held her head down over the sink, trying desperately to engorge.)
I felt bad that my ill repute was to be known by my pal's wife: I liked to keep that stuff away from the women, for fear that they'll castrate their husbands for hanging out with me. However, she's Russian, he later told me, and considers it men's behavior to do such things; they're supposed to act as I did. (Next wife's gonna be Russian, I decided.)
Times in the past that my cock disobeyed my direct order to "Stand at attention!":
(1) It was December 2002; I was getting ready to fuck this girl that later became lesbian (in fact, she was performing at the gay bar the night I wrote about above!) when she made a joke about having syphilis. Dick didn't come out to play that night.
(2) It was October 2003; I was getting ready to fuck this black girl in Roswell, NM, on the floor of some old redneck's bathroom. I had whiskey dick bad. (What? Of COURSE I was drinking! Why else would I be fucking on the floor of a redneck's bathroom?) Of course, her friend knocking on the door, mad that I wasn't fucking her, didn't help matters.
(3) October (or so) 1997: My dick did get hard this time, after a four-hour make-out session with a beautiful, big-breasted bitch that I'd been fooling around with (in three- and four-hour increments at a time, sans sex) for about a month. (Don't worry about me: I had some side-things going.) I was reluctant to take off my underpants because it was part of my game to get her to take them off; she obviously didn't know the rules. In any case, do you know how raw dry-humping actually makes a dick? So, I finally get my cock in and, after four hours of essentially dry-humping, (I was an idiot: I should've lost the jockeys and been fucking in ten minutes) I'm about to blast some violent seed into her. Ever the gentleman, I ask, "Where do you want me to come?" "I don't care," she replies, but I was already laying every last sperm cell - I think my dick might've even called for reinforcements - into her. After that, my dick resumed it's normal rest period, just "hangin' out", good for nothing other than a Christmas tree ornament.
Times that other shit has ruined my sex:
(1) In June 2013: I tried to fuck another large woman, and at a church campout, of all places. Same thing: She bent over, and shit ruined my hard-on. 'Fuck this,' my little Benedickt Arnold the Traitor said, 'I didn't sign on for this.' If it wouldn't have seemed weird, I would've cursed it: 'Fuck you, penis! Now be a trooper and fuck this puddle of goo; she's even trying to blow you awake!' Just so I could at least let her leave with a party favor, I fingered her to orgasm. But I have to ask: Do large women have a hard time wiping their assholes? Are their arms too short (and not slender enough, giving up precious inches of reach) to reach around their magnificent asses to clean their anuses? If so, it seems that patenting an apparatus that could reach their asses for the sake of cleanliness, hygience, and fucking them from the rear, would be a wise investment to make. (I'll take royalties, you idea-stealing fucks.)
So why share this sorry little story with you? Why make you part of my pain, shame, and embarassment? Why, indeed. I'll tell you: Because it's funny. It's just that simple: humor. If I wrote a story about me knocking the bottom out of some hot girl's ass (which I swear I've done), you'd probably consider it porn, and possibly bullshit. But, in either case, it probably wouldn't make you snicker; it probably wouldn't be memorable in the same way that a self-deprecating story about failed sex would be, either.
So there.
Fin
But have you ever been to a gay bar? Have you ever stepped inside to see same-gender couples, or women you can actually talk to about pussy and sex and "hey-she's-hot-over-there"? Have you ever seen the aggression at a bar more sexual? To put it in the words of a friend of mine, the place had a "vibe", a good atmosphere. There was no hostility, no peacocking. Again, to paraphrase my friend, everyone just wanted to be "accepted". All in all, a cool time. (Though the meat-gazing in the bathroom, I could've done without; fuck it anyway.)
Perhaps it is because this place is all about getting laid that I found it so amusing, not in a demeaning manner, but in terms of entertainment. You might get this: At a bar, a "straight" bar, a "normal" bar, people go there for any number of reasons: to get laid (yeah, you can just about say that about any gratuitous excursion: that getting laid is paramount!), to hang out with friends, to drink, to watch the game or smoke a stogie or play pool or... well, you get it.
The thing about a gay bar is, you could go there to do any of those things, of course... but the fact that the place caters specifically to a segment of the population based solely on their sexual orientation automatically lends itself to sexuality. If you're gay, you could still go to a straight bar (does a strictly straight bar even exist?) to do any of the aforementioned activities... but you go to the gay bar to meet up with like-folks. GAY folks. And good on ya, too: If they had a bar that solely targetted hot nymphomaniacs (a strictly female condition; in men, it's satyriasis) for customers, you bet I'd be a member. Hell, I'd be a barstool in a place like that.
In any case, if my friends and I were in this place, then it obviously stands to reason that we weren't the only straight ones there; I'd bet that an easy third of the people there were straight. Maybe they went with their gay friends, maybe they wanted a night away from their normal scene... maybe they'd even realized the tendency for sexual openness in a place like this (i.e., that tailors to a group based on their sexuality) and went for the potential of really getting some fuck going. (That's why I was there, after all.)
Though I'm not gay, even I could cut the sex in the air with a blunt dildo. Everyone was doing something. Those brutish men, one shirtless with the camo pants and combat boots, the other bearing a likeness to Michaelangelo's David, of about 6'5", mugging down in the bathroom. (A bit of a trainwreck to my straight self, I must admit, but nevertheless, interesting to see in its foreignness to me.) The six or so gay Asian guys, all grabbing one another's asses as if trying to determine which canteloupe to buy based on ripeness. The four cute lesbians - though, in fairness, only the one that approached us had the telltale haircut of the butch - asking us to please let them closer to the stage (there was a show going on) because they were shorter than us. (I use the term "butch" reluctantly, because she really was cute, sort of like a shorter, slimmer Matt Damon with breasts and freckles. (Sorry: I'm an Affleck guy. (Well... no, I'm not... but it just seemed funny to say.)))
The show itself catered to the crowd - it was rife with sexual innuendo and in-jokes, some reference humor that only frequent clientele, dirty minds, or the gay would understand - and that was the main focus, the attraction, on the lower level; the bar on the other side of the first floor was only that: a bar, merely a place to get your drinks and move on. Norm and Cliff can go to the speak-easy down the street; THIS place was for standing, bullshitting, and trying to fuck (or get fucked), not for talking about your day's work or discussing trite philosophy. Bacchus would enjoy this place, for the sex and liquor were both readily available.
After being there for a bit, I noticed something about other bars: When a dude at any other bar bumped into me, the feral hostility was abundant; there was no guesswork that said fellow was wanting to fight or otherwise attempt to assert dominance. (Now, I'm no fighter. I can fight, and have, but, as a rule, there isn't a whole lot that's worth fighting about at a bar - not politics, pussy, or religion - particularly when a jail cell might be at the conclusion of the evening.) At other bars, this bumping gesture, combined with a glare or some shit-talking, was no mystery. Here, though, the chest-bump or shoulder-nudge came with none of the normally accompanying hostility. I sat down at the mini-bar just after the cute lesbos asked us tall guys to get out of their way and struck up a conversation with a timid-looking gay guy, and asked him about this oddity in my life, this "harmless" chest bumping, curious if this was part of the gays' mating ritual. "Sometimes," he said, a friendly and not-at-all flirtatious smile crossing his face; he could tell I was straight, even with my five-day moustache and soul patch.
Upstairs was a whole different scene, and might as well have been an entirely different bar: It was a dance club, complete with strobe lights, techno music, and the gay leprechaun with glow sticks in his grill. Everyone was fucking dancing. (And I use "fucking" as a modifier, not an adverb that implies people were fucking to a beat. (Can you imagine "fuck dancing"? It would blow the Waltz, the Macarena, and the Boogaloo all to Hell; of course, the birthrate would soar, but fuck it! We's FUCK-DANCING!)
After standing around for a bit, wondering where we fit into this crowd of dancing, maniacal swingers, lust and sweat oozing from their pores, I noticed a cute but chunky - how chunky was beyond my ability to determine, imbibed on Jagermeister and beer and this miscellaneous shot as I was - girl eyeing me. So drunk was I on not merely booze but also on the openness of sex in this place, I couldn't see the harm in dancing with this female; in fact, she was more my type than 90% of the place's clientele (1/2 of which was male (gay or not, males are not my type), and the majority of the other half being lesbian, unattractive, or morbidly obese).
So: we danced. And have you ever been dancing with someone and they never quite matched your rhythm, or you theirs, and you felt as though it was somehow your fault? That was me. Now, I'm not a terrible dancer: I have rhythm, endurance, and I'm more or less fit. I'm good-looking. Armed with this last fact, I got somewhat tired of dancing off-step with this girl. After the obligatory common chit-chat (e.g., "My name is this....", "How old are you...", etc.) and some more dancing, getting ever closer to one another, my hands attempting to manipulate her clitoris through the jeans she had on, I finally just asked her: "Would you like to go someplace and fuck?"
Now, this may very well seem like a rude or churlish, impatient, perhaps, and quite simply vulgar. But I protest: I actually work well with people, not squarely in professional tripe, but also in banter that skirts the Outer Limits of conversation. Ergo, I would not have asked the question if, given the circumstances (as (1) she was primed for it, and (2) I was getting quite randy, feeling ornery), it was inappropriate. (That's not to say I won't do or say inappropriate things; what I mean is that, when I do these improprieties, it shouldn't really be all that surprising, given that a drunk me is churlish and vulgar.)
She grabbed my hand and escorted me off of the floor, taking me to an o so romantic shitter, a single with a toilet and a sink. She promptly locked the door and, in my confusion, thinking that she was drunk - evidently not drunk enough, since she had locked the door correctly - I unlocked it erroneously. It didn't take long - seconds, maybe - before passerby started to open the door; she was deft in her re-locking it, and I apologized profusely - if a proper apology can be issued while fumbling a cock out of one's pants while simultaneously undoing her belt and pants to submerge said cock into her pelvis' center.
You're probably expecting some sad tale where I get this girl to the bathroom only to realize (too late) that she's actually a HE. This was not the case: She was female, alright, with the titties and the pussy to prove it.
Damn, was she wet. Damn, did her ass look okay in the bent-over position. Nice: I was going to fuck in the restroom of a gay b-
Damn, did her asshole stink. The odor of shit hit my nose, though in fairness it could have been exacerbated by the copious cups of body sweat she produced. Yech. What a turnoff.... which should have been impossible, as aroused as I was by the prospect of fucking in a bar. But, yep! She did it.
Honestly, I did try to recapture the moment by choking my limp fucker like I was trying to squeeze a hot dog in half, (I'll call it "manual vasocongestion") hoping that the blood captured in my dick's head would make the slick pussy more tantalizing as I rubbed my cock up against it... but, to my chagrin, this didn't work. Nothing worked.
Somewhere between the shit-smell, my being tired from a three-hour workout, and my drinking myself halfway to silly Bacchus-style, my pecker failed me. I've bagged hotties and rotties around the world; my dick has fought through the most adverse of conditions. But here, maybe not when I needed it most, but when it sure as shit would've come in handy, my cock was as useful as a rubber filled - and not full - with cottage cheese.
How sad for me. How fucking morose I became.
"Is it the people knocking on the door?" She asked. God bless her for giving me an out, as saying that she didn't wipe her ass very well probably would have offended her.
"Yeah. Yeah, I think so."
So, out we went, released back into the gay bar, where I found my friends before hitting the urinal one last time. A gay black dude with a smart-ass fedora (think, "Cedric the Entertainer meets Queer Eye") meat-gazed me, and I laughed: "You don't want any of this, man; it's been up in a girl that stunk bad." He concurred: He did not want any of that.
On the way out, my buddy and his wife asked me where I'd gone and what I did. I lied, saying I got her pants down and fulled around with her, but didn't fuck her. (I still consider my strangled dick's head going into her as having fucked her; penetration - not deep penetration, but penetration, still - did occur, and at enough of a depth that any father, boyfriend, or husband would've been upset. That, and she was retard-moaning like a fireplug was going into her as I held her head down over the sink, trying desperately to engorge.)
I felt bad that my ill repute was to be known by my pal's wife: I liked to keep that stuff away from the women, for fear that they'll castrate their husbands for hanging out with me. However, she's Russian, he later told me, and considers it men's behavior to do such things; they're supposed to act as I did. (Next wife's gonna be Russian, I decided.)
Times in the past that my cock disobeyed my direct order to "Stand at attention!":
(1) It was December 2002; I was getting ready to fuck this girl that later became lesbian (in fact, she was performing at the gay bar the night I wrote about above!) when she made a joke about having syphilis. Dick didn't come out to play that night.
(2) It was October 2003; I was getting ready to fuck this black girl in Roswell, NM, on the floor of some old redneck's bathroom. I had whiskey dick bad. (What? Of COURSE I was drinking! Why else would I be fucking on the floor of a redneck's bathroom?) Of course, her friend knocking on the door, mad that I wasn't fucking her, didn't help matters.
(3) October (or so) 1997: My dick did get hard this time, after a four-hour make-out session with a beautiful, big-breasted bitch that I'd been fooling around with (in three- and four-hour increments at a time, sans sex) for about a month. (Don't worry about me: I had some side-things going.) I was reluctant to take off my underpants because it was part of my game to get her to take them off; she obviously didn't know the rules. In any case, do you know how raw dry-humping actually makes a dick? So, I finally get my cock in and, after four hours of essentially dry-humping, (I was an idiot: I should've lost the jockeys and been fucking in ten minutes) I'm about to blast some violent seed into her. Ever the gentleman, I ask, "Where do you want me to come?" "I don't care," she replies, but I was already laying every last sperm cell - I think my dick might've even called for reinforcements - into her. After that, my dick resumed it's normal rest period, just "hangin' out", good for nothing other than a Christmas tree ornament.
Times that other shit has ruined my sex:
(1) In June 2013: I tried to fuck another large woman, and at a church campout, of all places. Same thing: She bent over, and shit ruined my hard-on. 'Fuck this,' my little Benedickt Arnold the Traitor said, 'I didn't sign on for this.' If it wouldn't have seemed weird, I would've cursed it: 'Fuck you, penis! Now be a trooper and fuck this puddle of goo; she's even trying to blow you awake!' Just so I could at least let her leave with a party favor, I fingered her to orgasm. But I have to ask: Do large women have a hard time wiping their assholes? Are their arms too short (and not slender enough, giving up precious inches of reach) to reach around their magnificent asses to clean their anuses? If so, it seems that patenting an apparatus that could reach their asses for the sake of cleanliness, hygience, and fucking them from the rear, would be a wise investment to make. (I'll take royalties, you idea-stealing fucks.)
So why share this sorry little story with you? Why make you part of my pain, shame, and embarassment? Why, indeed. I'll tell you: Because it's funny. It's just that simple: humor. If I wrote a story about me knocking the bottom out of some hot girl's ass (which I swear I've done), you'd probably consider it porn, and possibly bullshit. But, in either case, it probably wouldn't make you snicker; it probably wouldn't be memorable in the same way that a self-deprecating story about failed sex would be, either.
So there.
Fin
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